


For Cas

by officialcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, AU - Human, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Dom!Cas, Eventual Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Sad, Sub!Dean, Top!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialcastiel/pseuds/officialcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after writing several famous books, Dean Winchester still finds himself unbelievably bitter from a car crash that killed his father. He despises his fans, but one day he receives fan mail that he is drawn to. Upon reading it, he gets a request from a man named Castiel Novak to write his eulogy because he is going to kill himself. Watch their nontraditional love story unfold as Castiel grips onto anything he can get for help, and Dean unintentionally finds himself doing the same. For Cas is a story of love, death and everything in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean sighed, picking up his whiskey and taking a big gulp straight from the bottle. Today, like all days was going to be long. He cracked his knuckles, then walked to his typewriter, his back aching more than usual when he got up. He groaned in pain, and fished out the Percocet bottle from his pocket and took 3. There was a sound of packages dropping and Dean jumped a bit, then cursed himself for being scared so easily. He grabbed his back, then walked to the door to pick up the mail for one reason, so that it wouldn’t sully his porch. He looked through it. “Bills, bills, fan mail...etcetera,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He hated his fans more than anything, because they didn’t like him, they liked a story he’d given them. Also, he just didn’t like being noticed. Then he came across a letter in a coffee stained white envelope. He opened the fan mail carefully, slightly frightened that something would pop out of it and that it would be a joke. But it wasn’t. Enclosed was a letter in barely legible handwriting.

 

_Dear Mr. Winchester,_ _I have a favor to ask of you. I realize that’s unconventional when writing to a famous author, but oh well. Time is of the essence. I might as well skip right to the point. I am going to kill myself sometime in the nearby_

 

Dean squinted his eyes to try and read a particularly badly written word. Finally, he was able to read it. 

 

_Future, and I would like you to write my eulogy. You are a good writer, and I don’t know whether or not you are a good person, but frankly I don’t care. I know you won’t waste time telling me not to and that I, a young man,  have so much to live for because you don’t know me, or care about me. So I thank you for that in advance. And I will return you the favor of not wasting your time by telling you an elaborate story of why I chose you. It basically boils down to admiring you and your work. But I’m sure you must tire of hearing that, so I’ll end the praise there. Because, Mr. Winchester, as much as you may not want to hear this, not everything is about you. And this letter isn’t. I don’t want my eulogy to be full of tears and lies about me being a good person. I just want an eloquent speech about death, and well the rest I will leave you to worry about. Thank you for your time._

 

_Sincerely yours,_ _Castiel Novak_

 

Dean swallowed, attempting to take this all in. This man didn’t even know him, and he trusted him with this information that he’d probably not told anyone else. And more importantly, he’d trusted him to write his eulogy. What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t believe he was even considering this, but he was. He didn’t owe this man anything, and he certainly wouldn’t get anything out of it. But still, part of him wanted to do it. It interested him, a new challenge. Writing a eulogy for a man he didn’t know. But another part of him screamed that it was wrong to hold onto the information that he was going to kill himself and do nothing. And the smallest part of him, smaller than he would’ve cared to admit, didn’t want him to die. Almost like he already cared about him. Which was preposterous, in Dean’s mind. He didn’t care about anyone.

 

 _Hell_ , he thought, _I might as well give it a try_. He walked over to his typewriter and tried to think of things to say. But he couldn’t. Not this time. It shouldn’t be an issue, shouldn’t be hard for him but it was. Hard not because he didn’t know the man, but because he didn’t think he knew how to write eloquently anymore. He hadn’t written a book he’d been truly proud of in years.

 

He ran a hand over his face in frustration, then looked at the letter again.

 

_Sincerely yours,_ _Castiel Novak_

 

Castiel, what an odd name. Dean found it hard to believe that someone with a name that beautiful would want to die. He wanted to know Castiel, to be with him when he died. He’d never seen someone die, to have the life drained out of them, and it intrigued him. It was selfish of him to wish death on this person so that he could have something to write about, or something new to interest him, but he did. He did wish it and he hated himself for it. 

 

He didn’t even know what he looked like. If he was pale, had stubble or was skinny or fat. He wanted desperately to know at least what color hair he had, and how it would feel when his fingers ran through it. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to know if his eyes were a pale blue, like the faithful sea that his eyes could get lost in. Or a deep blue, like the night sky, so he could search for stars in this broken man. If his eyes were green like his, so that he could have something to connect to him with. Green like emeralds, like precious emeralds that he could only wish to take in as wealth. Or maybe they would be brown. He loved and hated that color of eyes, hated it because that was the color of eyes Jo’s was, and she was long gone. But he loved it because they were so soulful, and you could tell when they were hurting.

 

But the thing was, Dean would never know Castiel. Not like he wanted to. He might know his family, if he decided to write his eulogy and went to the funeral. But he’d know them in the way you know any dead person. They’ll be remembered fondly, but that’s not what matters. No, Dean wanted to know his flaws. He wanted to know all the bad things about him and everything in his past that made him want to die. He wanted this badly, but he knew he would never find them out. He wanted Castiel to be his muse, but it could never happen. Because Castiel had to die. He had to. It was the natural order, and no one got to fuck that up. In order for Dean to live, and write, and continue being a selfish bastard, Castiel had to die. At least, that was what Dean believed.

 

He tapped his fingers slowly against his wooden desk and waited for the Percocet to kick in. His back hurt more than it should and he just wanted some relief. He sighed, looked at the empty page, then at the return address on Castiel’s letter. He stared at it for a long time, just playing out scenarios in his head. 

 

He would run into his house just as he was going to die, then watch. Just watch. And it would be righteous, it would be glorious. Because he would’ve inspired Dean. Dean wracked his brain to think of any reason that he felt different about this man than he did any other ignorant fan. Maybe it was because he didn’t adore him, like all the others did. But Dean would never know for sure. He needed to see Castiel, he decided. It wasn’t a want, it never was. He needed to be inspired, to have something to pour his heart into. He would write about this man and not shed a single tear when he died, because he knew it would happen. Because he, like many others, was just a character. 

 

Or he would stop him. He would rush in and tell him how beautiful he was even if he didn’t mean it because that’s what you do with people who want to die. He would cry with him and hug him and hold him until he felt better, and he would’ve taken pride in how he helped this me.

 

Maybe he would go in and find Castiel already dead. His cold, lifeless body that wouldn’t be able to quite make any eye contact with anything would make Dean sick and he would have to leave before calling and informing anyone about it.

 

Dean sniffed then poured himself more scotch. He drank everything he put in the glass in one big gulp, then rested his head on the cool glass. He closed his eyes tightly and wished he could fall asleep right then and there, wished that he was tired. But he wasn’t, and it was only noon. Sleeping was a release too, he couldn’t hurt when he was sleeping. But he didn’t dream hardly ever, not anymore.

 

He turned on Metallica and tried to fade out everything else.

 

_Sound is ripping through your ears_

_The deafening sound of metal nears._

 

He hummed along to the loudly playing song, tapping his fingers to the beat. “ _Your bodies waiting for his whips. The taste of leather on your lips_ ,” he sang softly. He felt a warm tear escape his eye, and didn’t even know why he was crying. He never did anymore. He glanced over to look at a picture of his brother Sam in a graduation gown standing next to his girlfriend Jess and Dean. They all looked so happy. Dean was especially proud of Sam that day, because he was smart. Hell, a genius even. Dean felt his lips tilting upward into a smile. A smile that only his little brother could bring out in him. He made him so damn proud.

 

Dean heard a knock at his door and, much to his dismay, instantly snapped out of it. He wiped his eyes and stood up. He pushed down on his back when he got up, hoping that pressure would make it feel better. It didn’t. He slowly walked over to his door. It was a woman, someone he didn’t recognize. He wished he did, though. She was beautiful. Long red hair and caring eyes that looked too scared to say anything daring. She was very skinny and covered up her body with jeans, a t-shirt advertising an old video game and a jacket. He was hoping to God it wasn’t a fan.

 

“Uh, hello?” he said gruffly.

 

She smiled nervously. “Hi ya. I’m Charlie. I’m from Roman Industries, you called me to fix your computer?”

 

He nodded, just remembering this and kicking himself for not thinking of who she was at first. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Come in,” he replied reluctantly.

 

“Awesome,” she said, more to herself it seemed like than anything. She seemed genuinely excited to fix his computer. Weird.

 

“It’s a piece of shit, really,” Dean said to her as she walked in and looked around. He knew she couldn’t help it, it was a mess. But it still annoyed him.

 

She looked back at him quickly and smiled. “Oh, it’s fine. The more broken it is the more fun it is to fix!” she replied enthusiastically. Then she looked embarrassed and dropped eye contact. “Heh, sorry. I just...I like computers.”

 

Dean smiled. “It’s fine. Here, I’ll show you where it is.” he started to walk off, assuming rightly that she would follow.

 

“Cool.”

 

He lead her into his messy living room and gestured towards his old computer. “Here it is. I haven’t really...upgraded in a while. Don’t really use it that often.”

 

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Holy _crap_ , Batman. This belongs in a museum! Wow,” she said, with more wonder in her voice than anything. “This is so cool.”

 

Dean chuckled. “Uh...how so?”

 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Usually I’m fixing Macs and stuff, but this is like, an actual challenge. And I am in, like, desperate need of one. God, you have _no_ idea.” she talked very fast, Dean was having trouble keeping up.

 

She crouched down to look at the problem. “Do you want some coffee or something?” Dean offered.

 

She shook her head. “Nah, thanks though. I think it would be better to not have my hands be all shaky when I try to look at what you’ve got going on down here. Learned that one the hard way,” she laughed awkwardly.

 

He smiled. “Okay. Tell me if you need anything.”

 

She stuck out a thumbs up. “Will do.”

 

It didn’t take her all that long to come back to Dean, who was sitting on his couch. Or maybe it was a while, he’d sort of zoned out. “Hey,” she greeted, taking him out of his daydream. He jumped in his seat a bit. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

 

Dean shook his head. “S’okay,” he replied, words slurred. Shit, how much have I drank today. 

 

She nodded slowly. “Cool. But uh, basically you just had some of the wires all crossed around. So, sort of not a challenge. But hey I’ll get one sometime. Not that yours wasn’t - oh...blark,” She finished anxiously. “Nevermind. Um, have a good day. If you need anything just call us. And if you liked, you know, having me fix your stuff then ask for me! Heh. Don’t be shy,” she said uncomfortably. “Sorry.” a beat passed. “I’ll see ya ‘round, I guess." 

 

And with that she hurried out the door, obviously feeling awkward. Dean sighed once she left, he really didn’t mind her being around. She sort of cheered up the shitty atmosphere of his shitty house.

 

Glad that he was finally tired, he decided to take a nap. He pushed himself to go to his bed and crashed instantly.

 

 _Dean woke up lying next to a corpse. He was terrified. He shook the man lying in his bed as hard as he could but to no avail. He turned him over to see who he was. “Dad?” he said, a tear escaping his eye. “Dad, come on. I’m sorry Dad please. Please wake up,” he begged. He begged and he begged but his eyes stayed cold and the damage to his face remained. Then suddenly, he opened his eyes._

 

 _“Dean,” he greeted in a low voice. His father, John, coughed and blood came out. Then he looked up at Dean. “Why’d you do this, Dean?”_

 

_Dean was crying. “I’m sorry Dad. I know I let you down.”_

 

_“You didn’t just let me down, you let the family down. You took me away from my sons, my wife. How could you do that Dean? How?”_

 

_Tears wouldn’t stop rushing out of his eyes. “Dad it was an accident. I’m sorry. God I’m so sorry.”_

 

 _John hit him across the face. Hard. “I shouldn’t have even been in the car that night. I should’ve been at home but I had to pick your ass up.  It’s all your fault Dean. You’re going to pay. You know your own mother hates you? She hates you Dean. She blames you. Everyone does,” he said angrily._ Dean jolted awake. “Fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stayed in bed for hours after he woke up from his nightmare. He didn’t want this to keep happening, it hurt too damn much. He sighed, then got out of bed to get himself a whiskey.

_At least I can afford the expensive shit._

Not that he had a problem with cheap whiskey, but he had gotten used to good whiskey. He grew up with bad whiskey, which wasn’t good for several different reasons. But his dad never gave a shit whether or not he drank, so he did. It wasn’t even an act of rebellion, really. It just was. And since he’d used it to numb the pain of little things when he was a teenager, like not being able to go to the dance with Robin, or when he and his dad got in a fight, he’d gotten used to it. Later on, it helped numb him from his little brother Sam’s disappointment in him after his dad died. He knew Sam tried not to blame him, but he also know that he did. He couldn’t help it.

And the truth is, Dean sort of blamed Sam for it too. He did. There were always those variables like “If Sam hadn’t set such high expectations for Dean he wouldn’t have crumbled and been buzzed that night” or “Dad called Sam first, he should’ve been the one,”. These are all things Dean tried to tell himself. He thought it would comfort him, but it didn’t. It never could. Dean knew it was his fault, he knew it and it hurt so bad, but he couldn’t accept it. Because if he did it would kill him. And if it didn’t kill him then he’d make damn sure something else did.

But truth be told, Dean missed Sam. He tried to say he didn’t and that they were better off separated but he didn’t mean it. He wanted to be there with him to help him with his stupid problems with Jess, or to buy him pizza when he had to cram for a test. He wanted all these things, but knew that they would never be.

 

_“There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.”_

Dean had said once, one drunken night years after the brothers had been estranged. He still didn’t know why Sam picked up the phone. Maybe he was expecting a sober, changed Dean. But everyone knew that wouldn’t happen. Sam stayed completely silent through Dean’s whole alcohol induced rant and apology, until the very end.

_“We’re not brothers anymore Dean.”_

Thinking about this made Dean’s heart ache. He remembered fond things of his childhood with Sammy, but now they all seemed to fade into gray. It mushed together like some badly cooked meal and Dean couldn’t bare to think of it anymore. But then again he couldn’t help it. He knew there must be some silver lining to not speaking to his brother, but also knew that he would never find it. They were each others weaknesses, true, but they also made each other better people. Dean hated thinking of Sam now, because he knew remembering the good would only bring back the bad. But still, he thought about him whenever he couldn’t help it.

Dean didn’t know what could make him feel any better when thinking about these sorts of things, so he did nothing about it for the longest time. But now, he felt like he finally had something he could do. He walked over to his typewriter, cracked his knuckles and sat down.

_Dear Cas,_

He took out the paper and crumpled it up, then put a new one in.

_Dear Castiel,_

_So sorry to disappoint you, but what you’re receiving is not a eulogy. To be honest, (and I know this is incredibly selfish of me) I am writing you for my own sake. I know, I know. You probably need it more for me but the thing is is that I can’t let you do this. I guess I’m aware that this is the exact opposite of what you expected me to say but you know what? Tough. Truth is, I feel like I know you Cas. I really do. And I don’t want you to die. Which again, is selfish. But I didn’t expect to want you to live. I have a background that I’m not too proud of, but I’m guessing you do too. Otherwise you probably wouldn’t be trying to off yourself. But I guess what I’m trying to say here...is I think you shouldn’t kill yourself. I think you should let me take you out for coffee. (Which is very cliche of me, I know, but I think it would be good for both of us.) I want to know what you look like, Castiel. If that’s okay with you. I think we’d get along very well._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Dean Winchester_

______________

He sat in his bed with his wired reading glasses, read over it what must’ve been a thousand times, seriously considered crumpling it and throwing it in the trash, but decided against it at the last minute. “Yours sincerely…” he muttered to himself and then ran a hand over his unshaven face. He sighed, “As good as it’s gonna get I suppose.” He set down the letter on his nightstand, being careful not to crease it. An act which he’d later decided was quite silly, because he would’ve had to fold it to fit it into the envelope anyway. Still, he set it down gently as if he was worried of hurting it, or by somehow hurting the letter that he would hurt Castiel. Neither of these things were acceptable in his mind.

He looked around the cluttered room and grunted with dissatisfaction. He knew he should clean it, or at least pay someone else to do it, but he wouldn’t. It was then that he smelled a distinct odor of booze and sweat. He scrunched up his nose and made a face. Then he lifted up his arm and smelled himself. He looked away almost immediately. “Fuck,” he muttered as he tried to stop his eyes from watering. He would have to take a shower.

He shuffled his way to his room and picked out a dark green shirt, a navy blue button up and jeans. He sighed. “This’ll have to do.”

Dean had a slight urge (or rather lack there of) to just keep on what he was wearing, despite the smell. But he knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. He turned on the shower to just the temperature he liked it, scalding hot. He didn’t know why, it was just a preference of his. He slowly began to slip out of his clothes as he thought about Castiel. And he’d be damned if he said he wasn’t thinking about him the rest of the day too.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean waited impatiently for Castiel’s reply, pacing through his cluttered house and listening to his two favorite songs on repeat to calm himself. He sang along at the top of his lungs to Led Zeppelin’s “Traveling Riverside Blues” during the day while drinking and popping Percocet. And when he listened to “Ramble On” it was always at night. Sometimes he wasn’t crying when he was listening to it, but mostly he was but no matter what, he always told himself that he wasn’t.

The song “Wanted Dead Or Alive” by Bon Jovi always saddened him. It was the last song he listened to with Sam before they stopped talking. They sang it together and Sam got really into it. Dean sang along sadly, because he knew there was a good possibility that he wouldn’t remember this the next morning. But he did, he never forgot.

Despite all of the recent thoughts about Sam, what he was most worried about was that he’d been too late, that Cas had already killed himself and he’d denied him the eulogy for nothing. He worried more often now and he wished he knew why.

 

_Maybe it was Cas._

He wondered and worried about him endlessly, and he didn’t even know him. Was it enough to say that he wanted to? To feel that he did? Maybe, but Dean didn’t think so. He hated that he felt this way. He was supposed to be a cold, people hating bastard. He despised what Cas had done but at the same time was left with awe about him. He never knew which was worse. Sometimes when he was trying to get to sleep he would talk to Cas quietly, muttering into his pillow. He would tell him about his days sometimes, or sometimes about things more serious, like Sam and his dad. He would cry and pretend to hold him, but he knew that this would never happen. The first time he pretended to talk to him in bed was the

hardest.

____________

_Dean laid in bed humming “Ramble On”. He smiled at the thought of Castiel writing to him, because the thought of his reply was the only thing keeping him going. Maybe they would meet up, maybe they would take turns holding each other, maybe they would…Dean trailed off. He hoped for this. Hell, prayed for it even, but it wouldn’t be so._

__

_“Hey Cas,” he said softly, just in case someone could hear him. There was no reply. “My day was okay today, even though I didn’t get to see you. You would’ve made it better.” he bit his lip, thinking of something to say. He couldn’t carry a conversation to save his life, not anymore. Not unless it was in writing and even then it was hard. But this wasn’t real. It didn’t count._

__

_“I bet you looked beautiful today. I wish I could’ve seen what you wore today. I want to know you all over. I want to know the outline of your body, I want to see how you look when you’re frightened, and I want to know better than anything how it looks when you have hope. Maybe I could give you that one day.”_

__

_He winced in pain and grabbed his back, quickly popping a Percocet. “Sorry, you know how it goes. Well, I guess you don’t. But that’s a story for another time. I don’t want to worry you. My pain wasn’t too bad today. After I wrote you back I didn’t even feel it. You make me feel better, Cas. Standing up in the shower wasn’t too bad. It kind of ached to be honest, but it always does. I don’t think you would admire me anymore if you knew me, Castiel. Nobody does. But I don’t know, maybe you’re different. You really intrigue me, you know. I can’t wait to see you. I mean, if you haven’t…” he gulped and closed his eyes tightly, pushing back that thought._

__

_“No, you wouldn’t have done that. Not yet.” he looked down and sighed, quickly changing what he was going to talk about. “You know, I was looking at your address on the letter, and you only live a town away from me.” he chuckled softly. “I know, the hell kind of author lives in Sioux Falls, right?” he sighed. “Yeah, but I like it here. My uncle Bobby lives here. He don’t know I live here though. But yeah, I’m pretty sure Sammy still lives in California with Jess, but I don’t know. Haven’t talked to him in years. But I guess you don’t even know who Sam is…maybe I’ll tell you about him later…do you wanna tell me about your day?” There was a silence. Not that Dean had expected any more, but it disappointed him nonetheless._

__

_Dean paused, waiting for Cas to answer, but knowing he never would. After a moment, he continued. “What kind of music do you like? I like classic rock. And none of that Beatles shit, that was pop, anyone can see that…Nah, I’m talking Zeppelin, Skynyrd, Metallica, Molly Hatchet, Van Halen, shit like that. That’s real music. I’ll have to show you it sometime. I figure you for a classical music type, but that music is shit. I’ll show you some good music, and you’ll fall in love with it. I know you will.”_

__

_Dean felt a warm tear escape his eye. “I’m going to go to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”_

Dean didn’t know why he thought that Castiel would be so different, but he imagined he would be. He imagined Castiel as this model he’d once seen in a catalog ages ago but had never been able to forget. He was beautiful in his mind. In the catalog he wore a light brown trenchcoat and a suit with a blue tie. His dark hair looked like he’d just gotten out of bed, and was clean shaven. His hands were large, but not as large as Dean’s, and his pose was running one of them through his hair. It looked forced. Dean had been drawn to him since the moment he saw him on that glossy thin paper. He’d forgotten many things in his years, but he never forgot this man. He was smiling, but not really selling it. You could tell there was something more, a secret, lying behind his eyes that Dean was eager to unlock.

Dean often thought about this catalog man, and wonder if he’d done anything else in modeling that he could see. He had no idea how he would find it though, but he still wondered, and hoped. He subscribed to that company’s catalogs as soon as he had seen that man’s face, in hope of seeing it again. But he never did. He never unsubscribed until eventually the catalogs became only available on the computer, which made him lose interest in it.

Sometimes he would touch himself thinking of that man, and it felt even better when he imagined that that man was Cas. He didn’t often masturbate, but when he did it was amazing every time. He would pretend that his own hands were that man’s, and that Dean was just guiding them. Each time he did it similarly, but Dean never got tired of it. He would start slowly, humming at how good it felt to touch himself. His cock would feel hot in his hands, and he knew it was worth it to make himself wait for. His skin tingled as he spit on his hand and squeezed it at the base. His face would flush as he began to stroke himself, lightly cupping his balls with the other hand. He looked down at his erection, wondering what the man would do next. He imagined the man would look him in the eyes as he started to go a bit faster. He would stare at him with a sultry look in his eyes, then Dean would watch as he would lose sight of the head of his dick in his hands.

As his forehead began to sweat, he would groan loudly when his thumb slid over the slit. He would hear a slick sound of his hand against his cock, feeling his balls grow tighter as he went on. Then his drawn out masturbation would end, and he would finish, feeling the joy of his come leaving his body. Whenever he did it, he always thought about that man, no one else. He sighed and cleaned up.

Dean checked his mailbox once again for Castiel’s reply, but to no avail. He went back inside and ran his hands through his greasy hair. He hadn’t showered in days, didn’t feel like it. He had stopped caring about his hygiene a long time ago. The reason he got up in the morning nowadays was for Castiel. But he didn’t want to just talk to himself and pretend it was Castiel anymore, he just wanted to talk to him. He wished for Cas to have written him back right away so he could have gotten the letter already, and replied to it. So he could have had something else to try to interpret, to try to figure him out with. He was actually sort of good at that. He liked to consider himself a good profiler, he’d always had a knack for it.

In fact at one point, before he’d taken an effort to make his passion his profession, he decided to be a cop. He’d signed up, and gone to the academy for a while, only to discover that he hated law enforcement. They had never done him any good, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Alas, his pursuit of becoming an officer wasn’t long lasting, or filled with enthusiasm.

He was in thrall to books of poetry and well written novels, and that was what consumed his life. Well, what used to anyway. Now his life was consumed with drinking and Percocet. He was filled with agony, self loathing and hatred for the rest of the world. Dean had love for very few things in this world. He didn’t like drinking, and certainly didn’t love it. He hated that too. One of the two things that he depended on most was also one of the things he despised the most. He remembered fondly when he used to be able to just have a beer with his brother or a friend and just stop there, but he couldn’t do that anymore. One beer would lead to two, which would lead to three which would lead to a whiskey, then another and another. And he always knew what that would lead to. A splitting headache, more Percocet and a big desire to call Bobby or Sam and tell them how much he needed help. He drank like this every night, but never brought himself to do it.

He knew calling someone would change his life forever in a good way, but he didn’t deserve a good life. He didn’t deserve sympathy or help. He deserved everything he got. He didn’t even think he deserved Castiel to be writing to him, if he ever wrote back. He didn’t think he deserved to have stumbled upon that beautiful man in the catalogue, or anything else nice in his life. He knew deep down, that he was a sinner.

 


	4. Chapter 1

Dean woke up in a jolt, sweat dripping down his bare chest and tears rolling down his face. He wiped his eyes quickly, then sighed and gripped his back in pain. It was always the worst when he first woke up. He reached next to his bed to grab his pills only to discover that there were just a few left. Not even enough to get him through the day. He winced as he dry swallowed them. Wearily, Dean checked the time.

1:54 PM

Had it really been that late? He could’ve sworn he’d gone to bed at a mere 11:30 last night. He sighed.

_I’m gonna need a damn good reason to keep on living today._

Soon he remembered that it had been some time since Castiel had written him another letter. With this thought, he pushed himself out of bed and practically ran to his mailbox. Only after he stepped outside he realized that it had rain. The fan mail he’d gotten was minimal, which made him feel a strange mix of delight and sorrow. He rifled through the letters, looking closely to see the names. There was a Catherine, an Ingrid, a Donald, but no sign of a Castiel towards the top of the pile. Just when he was beginning to give up, he saw a pale yellow envelope with Castiel’s name scrawled on it in barely legible script. If Dean could smile anymore, a hint of it crossed his face.

He tossed the rest of the letters to the side as he hurried to his leather chair, eager to see what had been said. He opened the letter up carefully, handling it to make sure it didn’t rip. And with that, he began to read.

_Dear Mr. Winchester,_

_I feel that I must inform you that I may not be the best of company, for I am generally bound to my house. But if you do truly wish to see me, I suppose the only thing that can be lost from that is your high opinion of me. Forgive me, words are not my strong suit._

Dean chuckled at that, he knew that wasn’t right. Castiel has a beautiful way of speaking, he thought, and just then realizing how low Cas must think of himself to believe that.

_I truly wish I had your way with words, or else I might not have had to write you in the first place. Alas, I was not blessed with anything in particular, and am stuck with a collection of uncategorized thoughts that look messy on paper. Anyway, you must make me a promise if we’re to meet that we are not to discuss my eulogy or what I want from it. I am trusting you, and you alone with that. I don’t want this eulogy to be personal in any way. Please respect that._

Dean nodded as he read this, but he knew he would have a hard time not describing which way his hair was parted when he first met him.

_Now as I suspect you already know, you will not change my mind about ending my life. And I’m going to be quite honest with you here, I’m scared of writing much more. I fear I will use up the only topics of conversation I know anymore. I will save the rest of my words for when we meet. I’ve given this some thought, and I know where we will meet. Callie’s Cafe at 2:30 P.M. Saturday the 18th of April._

_See you then,_

_Castiel_

Dean scrambled to his kitchen in search of his calendar. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the month, let alone the day. The only reason he knew what day it was was because the Doctor Sexy hiatus ended on April 14th, which was 2 days away. Still, he could’ve sworn that it was just Valentine’s Day and that he’d gotten letters from teenage girls asking him if he would take them to some formal dance every school seemed to be having. Of course, he had politely declined. Or now that he thought about it, didn’t reply at all. He wasn’t sure if that would be considered polite to anyone. He sighed, still searching for his calendar on the counter where he put piles of things he didn’t use anymore.

Right when he had almost exhausted all of his options of where it might be, he went over to his desk and saw it. It was half under his typewriter and had coffee cup stains all over it.

_Good enough._

Eagerly, he marked the 18th of April. Then he sighed, _shit_ , he thought.

6 days would be way too long.

 


End file.
